


Texas (compare to chapter 6 in full version, also called "Texas")

by I_am_lampy



Series: The "It's All Fine" Collected Works Deluxe Edition [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Drug Withdrawal, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, References to Drugs, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 15:07:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11255436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: "Ah, you're awake," she says pleasantly. "My name is Elspeth. I'll stop soon and get you some water.""Where am I?" Sherlock slurs out.





	Texas (compare to chapter 6 in full version, also called "Texas")

* * *

**March 2012**

**Texas**

Sherlock wakes in the backseat of a large SUV. His wrists are handcuffed in front and he's dressed in a pair of track suit bottoms and a t-shirt he doesn't remember owning, or putting on for that matter. There are flip-flops on the floorboard. He blinks and tries to get a look at the person—no, woman—driving the car. She's got ginger hair. She looks in the rear-view mirror, alerted by his movements.

"Ah, you're awake," she says pleasantly. "My name is Elspeth. I'll stop soon and get you some water."

"Where am I?" Sherlock slurs out.

"Well, we're kind of nowhere right now. We're on Texas Highway 46, but that won't mean anything to you. We're just outside San Antonio and we'll reach our destination in approximately thirty-five minutes."

"And what—" Sherlock clears his throat and then licks his lips. "What is our destination, exactly?"

"The house we're renting for the next few months."

"Right," Sherlock says, nodding. "And, uh, why, exactly, did we rent this house for the next few months?"

Elspeth chuckles. "Detox, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh," Sherlock says.

Does he need detox? He can't recall. The last thing he remembers is evading his FBI handler in New Orleans, finding a little flat to hide away in. Then there might have been some ecstasy and marijuana, possibly cocaine. Lots of cocaine, actually, mixed with ecstasy and marijuana and the occasional forced stop for water and food. A fair number of hangers on (free drugs guarantee you at least a few) maybe a prostitute or two, lots of sex, with and without prostitutes. It's a fog of sustained debauchery. He wants to write a sonnet to New Orleans. He loves the city, but it's the site of so much pain.

_(O, blessed New Orleans, she of light and dark_

_Dreaming, I devoured her and she lit me up)_

Sherlock's stomach lurches and he works on taking deep breaths.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Sherlock says, trying not to do exactly that.

"Shit," Elspeth says quietly.

She doesn't sound mad, but Sherlock feels ashamed and disgusted in equal measures. At least it was just cocaine this time, and ecstasy and marijuana are only psychologically addictive, at least for him. Heroin withdrawal is _so_ much worse in his experience. Drug withdrawal in general sucks, of course, but Sherlock tried to go a bit easy on himself this time. Tried to have _fun_. He knew better than to try to numb himself with heroin. Heroin is what he used when he wanted to die. Cocaine is what he uses when he wants to live, but can't handle living.

He's never murdered anyone before, and certainly not with his bare hands. The fact that Blaine traded in human slavery doesn't seem to have tempered Sherlock's post-killing trauma. He dreams about Blaine constantly. Nightmares, not dreams. Cocaine seemed ideal initially. Kept him awake and all that. Ecstasy was nice, too. Lots of sex, both genders. (He prefers men, but he likes women as well. He's never felt the need everyone else has to _label_ themselves, because once you slap it on, you have to carry it around with you forever. World's Only Consulting Detective is about as much label as he's willing to carry).

The SUV slows down and then pulls over to the side of the road. Elspeth comes around the passenger side of the back seat and helps him out. She pulls a key out and unlocks his handcuffs and keeps a firm hand wrapped around his upper arm, steadying him.

He looks her over and his nausea is temporarily eased by the information flowing off of Elspeth and into Sherlock's brain where it's sorted and categorized. First the basics: she's about five feet eight inches, ginger hair, plump but muscled (she'd _have_ to be to wrestle him into cuffs) and she's absolutely _covered_ in freckles. Her eyes are pale blue. She's wearing khaki shorts and an old t-shirt that says “Gruene, Texas.”

"It's a fucking furnace out here," Sherlock chokes out.

"Texas," Elspeth says, as though that explains everything.

Sherlock continues to process Elspeth's information. She's a bounty hunter (of course), unmarried, left-handed.

_(Oh, John, how I miss you)_

There's no other readily available information except for the stuff that he doesn't care about. What she ate for lunch today. Her earrings. Her watch. Her shorts and trainers aren't cheap, but they're practical. _She's_ practical.

She's unusually kind. For a bounty hunter. For anyone, really, that Sherlock has encountered since he fell off the roof of St. Bart's. She holds him while he vomits so that he doesn't pitch forward into the scrub ( _she's so strong_ ). She helps him down to the edge of the gravel road when he's done so he can sit with his head hanging, wrists resting on drawn up knees. She fetches some wipes, mouthwash, a bottle of cold water.

When he can move again without vomiting, she puts him in the front seat this time, buckles him in.

_(Not just kind—caretaker. Prepared. Wipes, mouthwash, water bottle. Buckles me in. Sooths me. Patient.)_

"You're a mother," he says.

"I'm not—" she says, and then stops.

"Oh," Sherlock says, realizing. Then, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"No, no, you're fine. I was only sixteen and I didn't—I wasn't a very good mother. She was taken away."

"Oh, thank God," Sherlock says. When Elspeth cocks an eyebrow at him, he hastens to add, "I thought at first that your child must've died. I'm just glad she's, you know. Alive."

To his surprise Elspeth chuckles softly and then shuts his door, almost gently. He realizes she's trying to minimize the noise for his over-sensitive ears. She gets into the driver's side and puts on the blinker, checks the mirrors before pulling back onto the road. Careful driver. Safe.

"I'm glad she's alive, too," she says.

"You didn't handcuff me," he points out.

"Do I need to?"

He smiles, but says nothing.

Soon, they're cruising along at sixty miles an hour. There's very little traffic back and forth, just the swell and curve of land spread out before him covered in blue sky so bright it hurts to look at. He's never seen sky like this. In the distance are a grey jumble of clouds that suggest rain.

There's trees in the distance, scrubby ones he can't identify and then bigger ones with tiny leaves that he also can't identify. Everything is a shade of brown and olive green, from the faintest golden beige to dark, succulent green.

"A camouflage world," Sherlock muses.

"Hm," Elspeth says, sounding pleased.

Sherlock looks at her and sees a reflection of himself: lonely, full of longing for someone far away.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

She smiles, but says nothing. Sherlock feels safe next to a lonely woman whose skin is mapped with freckles, the two of them hidden inside the camouflage world.

~*~

The house is set back from the road at least a quarter mile and the drive from the main road to the house is unpaved. Several times, Sherlock thinks about begging to be let out to walk. Elspeth navigates it carefully, but he has to stop once with the dry heaves.

The house is large, with a courtyard and "breezeway" as Elspeth calls it. It's a screened in porch with a small bar with two stools, a sturdy patio table with two chairs, and a TV mounted on the wall. It makes an impression on Sherlock because it connects the garage to the rest of the house and is pretty much all of what he sees of the house for the first week.

The breezeway leads into the laundry room, after that a small hallway that leads to a bedroom with _en suite_.

He doesn't make it further than that into the house for a week.

~*~

**April 2012**

**Texas**

"What are you writing?" Elspeth asks. She's lying on her stomach and the sheet has slipped down to her waist.

"A sonnet," Sherlock says.

"A _sonnet_? Seriously?" she asks, lifting up to look at the paper he has spread flat on a photo book of Texas desert animals. Her heavy, freckled breasts catch his eye. His prick twitches in interest.

"Yep," he says, pulling his eyes away. "A sonnet."

"To me?" she asks with a coy arch of her eyebrow.

"Hardly," Sherlock says and leans close to kiss her so she knows he's teasing.

One kiss turns into two turns into three turns into Sherlock's fingers and lips sketching lines connecting one freckle to another on Elspeth's shoulders.

"I could spend a thousand years mapping your freckles and never map them all," he says. "It's like your skin is covered in tiny ginger stars."

"Oh, my," she murmurs. "You do have a way with words, Mr. Holmes."

"Mm," he says, his lips trailing lower.

He wonders, idly, if Mycroft sent Elspeth because he knew this would happen—Sherlock and Elspeth in bed. Sherlock _healing_ with Elspeth because she was a bad mother and lost her child, then worked in a rehab clinic, learning to be a good mother before becoming a woman who hunts people down. He's probably giving Mycroft too much credit. He certainly couldn't have predicted Sherlock would sleep with her.

Her coarse ginger hair tickles his nose when he turns her gently onto her side and lines himself up behind her. He presses his lips against her neck and she pokes him in the eye with the condom packet when she hands it to him over her shoulder without looking. They laugh and, for a moment, it's not sex but something better, something a lot like friendship.

He needs a friend.

"Thank you," he murmurs against the map of ginger stars.

"For poking you in the eye?" she chuckles.

"For holding me while I vomited and cried and cleaning up my shit and sitting with me after nightmares and still letting me seduce you."

"Oh, you thought _you_ were seducing _me_?" she asks softly.

"You saucy tart," he huffs, nuzzling into her neck.

"I think we seduced each other," she points out.

"Probably," he agrees.

In another week, Sherlock will have to move on. They won't see each other again.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> I'm changing my regular posting date to Monday so the wonderful Boonchandi and StarlingGirl30 have the weekends to work their magic polishing up my work. 
> 
> However, if the pieces are short like this one, I'll post them as soon as I get the all clear from my wonderful editors (see above) because, as a reader, I'm always disappointed to read a 1500 word story and then have to wait another week for a more substantial one. So this, I suppose, is like an appetizer!
> 
> Email me at archiveofmyown@gmail.com. I answer every email I get!


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